


Everybody Wants to Rule the World

by Twisted_Slinky



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Control Issues, Hurt Stiles, Kidnapped Stiles, Light Bondage, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Mildly Dubious Consent, Non-Consensual Touching, Post-Episode: s05e10 Status Asthmaticus, Semi-Sane Peter, Sexual Content, Steter - Freeform, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-11
Updated: 2015-11-11
Packaged: 2018-04-29 17:15:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,010
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5136029
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Twisted_Slinky/pseuds/Twisted_Slinky
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Hello, Stiles."</p><p>The recognition wasn't instant, but the fear was. For a split second, he didn't know why his whole body had frozen, his eyes widening, the hair on the back of his neck standing on end. Then it hit him, the moment before he swiveled around and saw the werewolf standing behind him. That was Peter Hale's voice.</p><p>Peter locked-in-a-cage Hale.</p><p>Fight or flight. Logically, he knew he should choose one, but he couldn't. The first thought to pass through his head slipped out of his mouth.</p><p>"Who let you out?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Everybody Wants to Rule the World

**Author's Note:**

  * For [BelleAmante](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BelleAmante/gifts).



> Just a few notes and fair warnings: I didn't label this as dubious consent, but please be aware that, in the situation that Stiles is in, I would definitely would call it that, considering his frame of mind. As mentioned, this is post season 5A, so there are spoilers.

" _Hello, Stiles."_

The brightness made his eyes hurt. And it was definitely daylight causing him pain, but it felt like morning should never have arrived. Like the whole town should be cast in darkness; _Beacon Hills, where night never ends and every night is Halloween,_ Stiles thought, then almost vomited when the near-quote brought back bad memories. No, despite the heavy storm clouds leaving the world below a too-bright gray, it was officially the next day and his dad was back in surgery.

Stiles couldn't take another minute of breathing the same stale air, his knee jumping faster than his heartbeat, nerves on edge. So, he'd wandered the halls, finding his way out past the ER doors, stumbling over the curb of the sidewalk and across the drive, to the closest patch of grass. A fine, cool mist slickened his face, dampening his clothes and hair. He considered collapsing right there.

"Wake up," he muttered. "Just wake up."

He wasn't sure if he was directing the words at himself or at his father. Dad hadn't woken up since he'd been brought in. Touch-and-go. Blood loss. Internal. Chance. Septic. Those were the words the doctor had used, and Stiles had blinked dumbly upon hearing them, not quite letting them soak in, instead trying to remember if the man in front of him was Liam's step-father or simply a look-alike.

Stile swallowed hard. There'd been a choice last night, hadn't there? He seemed to remember a choice. Pick one or the other. Pick one to save, or pick none. Pick none. Had that been the choice?

"Wake up," he said, again, his voice hitching.

He closed his eyes, trying not to think: his dad was under a knife, he hadn't seen Melissa here, the others were... _Where is everyone?_ Stiles wasn't sure. He wasn't even sure if they were all still...The thought drifted away with a startling realization taking its place. That this was the loneliest he'd felt since the day his mother died. Even then, in spirit if not in body, he knew he had his brother. Scott wasn't here now, though.

But maybe he wasn't quite as alone as he thought. He just didn't realize it until he heard those words again, patiently repeated:

"Hello, Stiles."

The recognition wasn't instant, but the fear was. For a split second, he didn't know why his whole body had frozen, his eyes widening, the hair on the back of his neck standing on end. Then it hit him, the moment before he swiveled around and saw the werewolf standing behind him. That was Peter Hale's voice.

Peter locked-in-a-cage Hale.

 _Fight or flight._ Logically, he knew he should choose one, but he couldn't. The first thought to pass through his head slipped out of his mouth.

"Who let you out?"

Peter's smile was small, almost chiding. An almost familiar sight. An almost sane emotional expression, if it weren't for the look in his eyes. Stiles saw it, that same wild rage he'd stared right into on the lacrosse field the night Peter had attacked Lydia. Instinctively, Stiles took a step back, nearly stumbling over his own feet.

"Don't," Peter said, his voice tight. "Don't. Run." He cocked his head slightly, watching Stiles. "I don't think I'll be able to control myself if you try to run."

Stiles' mouth was dry, his fingers squeezing and loosening as he tried not to lift them to his teeth to chew at his nails, his skin. He took in all of Peter, his clean clothes, new shoes, the claws. Peter's claws were out, his hands trembling slightly. Control. Yeah, Peter seemed to be lacking that at the moment.

"What happened to you?" Stiles asked.

Peter flinched. "What do you think?"

Stiles nodded to himself. "You escaped. But you stayed in Beacon Hills? Derek's not even in town."

"Obviously."

Stiles had too many thoughts running through his head. Too many that were unattached to the murderous werewolf standing in front of him. "Why are you here, Peter?"

Here. As in, not just in Beacon Hills but standing in front of the hospital. Talking. Stiles could only think of one immediate answer. Peter Hale was a man who enjoyed his revenge, and Scott's pack had taken his opportunity to rise in power from him, helped lock him away. Stiles tensed, feeling a tremor work its way through him, but he didn't run. Didn't try to reach for his phone...

Peter must have been a mind reader. That or Stiles' hand had subconsciously moved toward the device. Peter's gaze darted down to Stiles' pocket. "Drop it on to the grass. You won't need it where you're going."

Stiles swallowed hard. "Where's that?"

"Somewhere we can have a private chat." Peter's small grin returned, somewhat strained. "We have so much catching up to do."

Stiles pulled the phone free, hesitating only a second before letting it slip from his fingertips. Keeping Peter calm seemed like a good choice, but Stiles couldn't help but pull a face, uneasy with Peter's little 'plan' to get him to leave. "Yeah, well, the hospital actually has a lovely waiting room on the first floor. Surprisingly comfy chairs. Great place for talking." At Peter's stony expression, Stiles' jaw tightened. "My dad is in there."

There was a pop and grind, the sound of knuckles and fingers protesting, and Stiles saw that Peter's clawed hands had curled up into fists, drops of red dripping out between his fingers.

"That's the very reason you're not going to argue with me, Stiles. You're going to do exactly what I tell you to do. Because your father is in the building behind us."

Stiles did want to argue. He really did. But Peter was right. A rabid, out of control, vengeful werewolf...the hospital had seen one too many of those. If anything, Stiles needed to get Peter away from the hospital, away from his father. He was kind of pissed that Peter had been the one to point that out, in his own ominous way. Stiles wanted to blame his fuzzy brain on lack of sleep, but he couldn't. He felt like he'd been making the wrong moves for weeks now, and all those bad decisions were suddenly catching up to him.

His shoulders slumped in defeat. The overbearing numbness he'd felt after his father was rolled away from him was returning. He wanting to 'think' his way out of his current Peter problem, but he was tired. So fucking tired.

Stiles wasn't sure when they started walking, if Peter had walked away and he'd followed, if it had been the other way around. Just that, at some point, they reached a silver sedan, and he found himself sitting in the passenger's seat as Peter drove them out of the parking lot. Stiles almost expected someone to stop them. There was a deputy on a smoke break not thirty feet away from the ER doors, and a good chunk of the hospital staff knew him by "sheriff's son" if not by name. But no one even looked in their direction. This had to be the easiest kidnapping in all history.

When they reached the next stop light, Peter graced him with a glance. "Shut your eyes."

"What?"

"Shut your eyes," Peter repeated. He raised a brow. "It's going to be a long ride. If you don't think you can keep them shut, I can put you in the trunk. Would that be easier on you?"

As sincere as the question sounded, Stiles knew better. Knew Peter liked to play with his food. He felt his pulse speed up a bit and forced his eyes closed.

"No peeking," Peter said.

Stiles could have sworn he could _hear_ the man smiling. "Asshole," Stiles muttered, but he kept his eyes firmly closed. He had a feeling Peter would know if he was looking, use some sort of freaky werewolf hyper-vigilance to catch him. He stiffened, feeling a hand slide against his chest, but the contact was brief. A second later, he felt his seat belt stretch over him, then heard it click into place.

The car started again, turning left. Stiles tried to work up the determination to memorize the turns. He'd seen that on a tv show once. Only, about ten turns later, he was certain Peter was driving in lazy circles just to throw him off, and his mind drifted.

"Can werewolves be vegans? None of the werewolves I've met care much about eating their vegetables, but if, like, a vegan was bitten and turned, would they crave meat?" he asked.

Peter hummed a response and turned on the radio. Since it wasn't a growl, Stiles decided to keep testing the waters.

"Because it's not like herbivores in the animal kingdom are all soft and cuddly. Hippos are responsible for hundreds of deaths a year, way more than wolves, so aggression isn't determined by what something eats, obviously, but werewolves aren't werehippos, so...Wait, are werehippos a thing? Nevermind, I don't want to know."

"Chimeras," Peter said.

The word cut Stiles off entirely. He was suddenly glad his eyes were closed. _How does Peter even get his information?_ Did he learn something at Eichen House or when he was, apparently, spying on them after his breakout? Stiles lifted his hand to his lips, chewing on the side of his finger.

"Like from Greek mythology?"

"I'm well aware of the mythology, Stiles. I'm more interested in the Chimeras of Beacon Hills. Why don't you tell me about them?"

"Sounds like you already know what we know...Which, really, that should surprise me more than it does." Stiles tried to keep his breathing even. "Is there a supernatural newsletter that goes out...? Seriously, have you been living in my closet since your escape?"

"So defensive," Peter tutted. "I was simply curious. After all, one of the hybrids was waiting for you outside the hospital...I do believe your were destined for abduction today, with or without my interference. I have to wonder, though, why a creature like that would be interested in you specifically."

Stiles didn't want to say another word, but he felt it boiling up to the surface. Peter seemed to be working toward a theory. Something he could use to manipulate, to hurt, to get his way. Stiles didn't want to give him the satisfaction, but he couldn't stay quiet. Why not poke the bear?

"Are you actually crazy, Peter, or are you just screwing with me?"

"Can't it be both?"

* * *

He didn't realize he was asleep until his head bounced off the side window, leaving him blinking in dazed confusion at the treeline the car was driving past. It took Stiles another moment to remember why he was in a strange car, and who he was with. His eyes widened slightly at the sound of a throaty hum of acknowledgment from the man in the driver's seat. Then he remembered his eyes weren't supposed to be open to widen.

_Shit._

"Don't worry. I'm not going to punish you. We're almost there."

Peter's soft voice sounded almost tired. It made Stiles wonder how long they'd been driving. The dash clock was still set to the radio instead of showing the time, even if the music had been turned down low. He craned his neck, looking for the sky. It was hard to spot through the blur of branches looming overhead, but the sun was still high above. Maybe just a few hours then. Just long enough to get out of Beacon County, away from people who were looking for them. If there were people looking for them...

Stiles grimaced, mentally correcting himself: _there's no one looking._

He pressed a hand up against his chest, absently thumbing the spot over his heart, willing the muscle to slow down a bit and quit giving him away. Peter could probably taste his fear filling the car.

"Where are we?" Stiles managed to ask.

Peter didn't answer, eyes fixed ahead. The silence was more unnerving than any Disney-villain reply Peter would have given him.

Stiles realized the tires were eating gravel; the road had turned into more of a driveway, one that snaked through the dense woodland. Grass was growing up through the middle and overtaking the edges of the drive. Off-the-beaten path, that was the best way Stiles could describe it. He hadn't been awake to notice any signs announcing that this was a well-known park, so it could have been private property. Even more secluded.

They slowed at a washed-out curve in the path, and when the car made it around the bend, Stiles could see the cabins. They were spread out, as if they'd been spaced without rhyme or reason. Stiles hadn't seen these cabins before, but he'd seen ones like them, at campgrounds. They were small, probably just one large open living area on the inside.

Stiles pushed himself upright at the sight, but immediately frowned when they got closer to one. If this had once been a campground once, it wasn't open anymore. Nature had overtaken the cabins, covering them in bramble and vines, leaving their rooftops heavy with fallen leaves and crumbling branches. One of the cabins leaned precariously to the side, as if ready to collapse at any moment.

The car rolled to a stop in front of one of the more stable looking, larger structures. It was in better shape than the others, the front door cleared of debris and the path from the drive open and inviting. Had Peter been staying here? Stiles almost bit his tongue to stop a slew of questions from spilling out. _What happened to the apartment, Peter? Is this where you slink away to when you're conveniently absent from a big fight? Is this where you take your victims?_

Stiles wanted to know; Peter liked to hear himself talk. Yet both stayed quiet.

Peter's door clicked open, and Stiles followed his lead, slowly sliding out of the car and waiting. Peter circled to the back, opening the trunk and pulling out a few heavy shopping bags. Then he tugged free a ragged-looking duffel bag. It looked familiar.

"Is that mine?"

"Observant as ever." Peter threw the strap over his shoulder. "I planned to pack a few things for you, but, to my surprise, I found a bag already ready inside your closet. I left behind the more dangerous items inside, of course, but it was impressively well stocked. Were you planning a trip somewhere, Stiles?"

"It's a go-bag." Stiles blinked, his nerves on edge. Peter had packed him a bag? "For emergencies. Never know when you're taking a spontaneous camping trip to Mexico. If I'd know it was going to be used in my kidnapping, I would never have bothered. Foresight being 20/20 and all."

Peter had planned this. Had picked the bag up before coming after him, not after. He'd known where they were going, to this not-at-all-terrifying torture cabin in the woods. Stiles opened and closed his mouth, wanting to say something. Something cutting, something witty. Nothing came out.

Then he ran.

He moved faster than his lethargic legs wanted him to, slinging himself past a tree and nearly tripping over a thick root. Long, manic minutes passed before he finally heard something enter the woods behind him. He could almost picture Peter standing at the car, considering giving him a slight head start.

He couldn't outrun a goddamned werewolf.

But that wasn't the point.

Chest heavy as he sucked in a frantic breath, he slipped down a muddy ditch, barely keeping his footing. Stiles couldn't actually remember the point anymore, unless his point was to make his heart explode, which he seemed to be succeeding at. Funny, his feet had thought this was a great plan at the moment. And his brain had said this was as good a time as any for a test.

Stupid body parts.

Almost as soon as he realized Peter was actually pursing him, a heavy weight slammed into him from behind, knocking a yelp of surprise out of him. He tripped on his way down, landing hard on his side, and his hip felt like someone had pushed a hot iron against it. It took him a second to realize that wasn't a hot iron but a sharp rock beneath him, but that seemed suddenly irrelevant when he was tossed onto his back. He got a glimpse of the monster then, of Peter.

Gone was was the eloquently spoken manipulator. Flashing blue eyes were livid and bright with blood lust and glaring down at Stiles from the face of a crazed wolf in beta form. Stiles opened his mouth to speak, to try and ease the werewolf down, but bit his tongue when a clawed hand pushed down on his chest, pinning him to the ground. All Stiles could see were teeth, far too close, and he turned his head away on instinct. The hot growl against his cheek left him trembling.

"Peter, come on, man..."

The teeth snapped at thin air, silencing him. Stiles felt the man's weight shift, felt the blow coming, and raised an arm between them, out of instinct, and right into the path of those fangs.

Stiles cried out, kicking his heels furiously at the damp earth beneath him and beating on the man's shoulder with his freed fist, but the werewolf stayed latched onto his left wrist. Warm blood dripped down onto Stiles' face, and he could taste dirty pennies on his lips. The groan of his straining bones made him gag.

"God, _stop_! Peter, _please,_ just stop already! I'll be good!"

Stiles was shaking too hard to realize Peter had stilled completely. His teeth, still imbedded in Stiles' skin, weren't digging any further, had even loosened their hold. Peter's breathing was loud, heavy breaths through his nose. A long second passed before he let go completely and sat up straighter, his weight heavy against Stiles' throbbing hip. Peter stared down at him, still shifted, a terror with blood smeared down his chin, but his eyes were wide and dazed instead of mad.

Stiles cradled his arm against his chest, not wanting to look at the damage. _Get the fuck off of me_ , kept failing at his lips, and he hoped like Hell that wasn't an actual whimper replacing the words.

"He locked me back inside."

The statement came out muffled. Peter's human mask slid back into place, and he blinked down at Stiles, his words clearer, if somewhat quiet, when he spoke again.

"He locked me back inside," he repeated, as if that should mean something to Stiles. "Back inside me."

Stiles shook his head, biting down a groan. "I don't know what that even means," he snapped, frustrated.

Peter cocked his head slightly. Stiles could almost see a part of the man waking back up, some fresh awareness in his expression. But Peter didn't look particularly shocked at his actions. He might have been more ruffled over spilling coffee down his shirt. He reached up, lazily wiping the blood off his face with the back of his hand.

"Don't do that again, Stiles," he said, his voice lighter. The tone was chiding again, and the shift in his personality left Stiles rattled. "If you do something like that again, I won't stop."

* * *

The cabin was sparsely furnished and mostly one wide, open room. A bed, a couch, a table, then at the back, a small break away into a kitchenette and a door to the tiny bathroom. It probably would have been a nice place to rent in its day, but it smelled like mildew, the rustic decor a bit too authentic. But there were also newer items, mostly in boxes or bags, obviously things Peter had brought up here. Stiles tried to mentally catalogue every item, every detail, as he took his time gently cleaning and dressing the wound at his wrist. It was better than the alternative of actually thinking about why he was injured or studying the bite itself.

It made him sick. Not the grotesqueness of it, just the thought, of how easy it would have been for Peter to have actually chomped down, taken his hand off. Of what that bite would have meant if Peter's eyes were red instead of blue, like they were the first time Peter had offered to sink his teeth into Stiles' wrist.

Stiles pushed that memory down and went back to using a wrap to gently compress the wound now that he had a few butterfly bandages stitching the deepest cuts, bandages from his own damn go-bag that he'd packed for his kidnapper, who, _apparently,_ hadn't considered his victim was a human who might need a First Aid kit.

"Asshole," Stiles muttered.

The bite didn't look that bad. The shape of a mouth was clearly visible, but Peter must have caught himself before he'd done more than break the skin. Still, the area itself was swollen, bruised, and tender to the touch. His left hand wouldn't be much use to him for a while.

"It's not even broken," Peter commented lazily, flipping a page of his newspaper.

Stiles glared at the smug bastard sitting at the table across from him. After they'd gotten inside, Stiles had been told to "clean himself up" while Peter had simply settled down to relax after a hard-day of abducting and attacking teenagers.

"Wow, I had no clue x-ray vision was included in your werewolf upgrades bundle."

Peter rolled his eyes but didn't look up at him. "There was a tear under the skin, not a break. You've sprained your wrist."

"I've..." Stiles blinked. " _I've_ sprained my wrist? Are you serious right now? Because I don't remember attacking myself, psycho-wolf."

The werewolf folded his paper, sitting it aside. "You ran," he said. "What did you think would happen? With that in mind...why _did_ you run?" He did look at Stiles then, head cocked in thought. "You might occasionally be idiotic, but you're not stupid. And you usually have a plan. You knew you wouldn't escape, so why run?"

"Back up." Stiles raised his good hand in protest. "You _kidnapped_ me, okay? So, running? Yeah, that's my right. And, I am way, way more stupid than you give me credit for, but no freakin' way am I letting you get away with your manipulative victim-blaming bullshit. I know what this is. It's you wanting me to be somehow _thankful_ because you didn't tear me to pieces."

Peter raised a brow. "You didn't actually answer my question."

"And I'm not 'actually' going to," Stiles snapped back.

He flinched when Peter stood up, but instead of walking toward him, the werewolf went to the kitchenette. He came back with a baggie of ice cubes and a triangular plastic container, a pre-made sandwich inside.

"Ice the wrist and eat," Peter said.

Stiles made a face at the sandwich. "Jesus, is that from the vending machine at the hospital cafeteria?"

Peter didn't bother answering. "I don't expect you to be thankful," he said, sounding sincere. "I expect you to manage to stay alive. Which is why I'm feeding you. Because I need you alive and relatively undamaged to get what I want from you. As you know, I'm a selfish person, and I only do what I do if it's going to benefit me in some way. It's in both of our best interests for you to not push me over the edge right now, Stiles." He flashed threatening blue eyes. "I don't have any intention of killing you at the moment, but there's a part of me that would _relish_ the chance to rip into you, taste you, leave what's left of you on your Alpha's front door as a present...You _don't_ want to feed that part of me. Do you understand?"

Stiles slowly nodded. He swallowed. "What is it, then? If you don't want to kill me, then what do you want from me?"

Peter stared at him, as if judging his sincerity. His nostrils flared, taking in Stiles' scent. "Eat," he ordered, instead of answering. "Then you're going to take another nap. You don't look like you've slept in days."

"You're sending me to bed?"

Peter hummed in agreement and went to the couch with his paper, ignoring Stiles for a moment. Then he cleared his throat. "I can tie you up, take away the temptation to flee, if you'd prefer," Peter offered, absently.

Stiles' hand shook as he ripped the sandwich open. "I'll manage," he said, and if Peter heard the lie, he didn't mention it.

* * *

The corridor was familiar. He'd seen it far too often over the past year. The hospital. The floor his father was on. There was a nurse at the desk, taking a phone call. Voices, too muted to actually make out, echoed from a one of the rooms. But something was wrong here. Stiles couldn't figure out what it was until he tried to find the right room. The numbers, the room numbers were all scrambled, backwards, upside-down, mixed with letters and symbols. None of it made sense.

He couldn't understand why that little detail was so terrifying, but it was. It made him feel disoriented, lost, but more determined than ever. He'd find him. He'd find him...Stiles reached out for the closest door, his hand slipping against the slick surface. It was smooth, no handle in sight. He threw himself against the door and it didn't budge, so he ran to the next one, finding it just as hard to open. But there were voices, weren't there? There were people inside? Dad was here, somewhere.

He slammed his fist against the door.

No one would answer. No one would open the door. The nurse never even looked up. It wouldn't have mattered anyway. She didn't have any eyes to see him with.

Stiles jerked in his sleep, immediately wincing at the throbbing coming from his wrist, which had, apparently, been knocking on an imaginary door. The soggy bag of ice was gone, but the compression wrap was damp still and uncomfortably tight against the swollen skin beneath. He clenched his jaw against the pain, pushing the side of his face further into the pillow.

"You didn't sleep well," Peter commented.

Stiles barely stopped himself from jumping again. Peter was leaning back onto the arm of the couch closest to the bed, watching him. The man was lit from behind, by oil lanterns sitting around the cabin, and they cast his face in shadows. Stiles couldn't quite make out his expression, just the bright reflection off his eyes.

Despite being trapped in a cabin with a murderer, Stiles had somehow slept the day away. He pushed himself up, twisting around so that his back was against the wall, and trying not to grimace as the movement put pressure on the knot over his hip, where he'd landed on the rock outside. He wasn't exactly facing the werewolf, but his eyes stayed on Peter, nevertheless. He jutted out his chin, as if to make sure Peter knew he gave zero shits about hearing an opinion on his REM cycle.

"There's something...off about you, Stiles."

Stiles was completely unnerved by Peter's game, or whatever this was. He preferred it when puzzle pieces fit together. None of this made sense. At least, in the past, when Peter was up to something, Stiles could venture a guess as to how the werewolf would best benefit from the situation. This though...Stiles couldn't wrap is head around whatever the hell Peter wanted him for. Maybe Peter was actually as crazy as he was currently acting.

Stiles sighed when he realized Peter was still staring at him, waiting for a reply.

First Theo wanting him (or his void self) in his pack, and now Peter taking him on a camping trip; Stiles suddenly wanted to take back every moment he'd wished he were more needed, because being in high demand was definitely not a good thing.

"Were you just sitting there, watching me sleep the whole time, because that's not creepy at all."

Peter leaned forward slightly, this face catching the light, and his eyes were narrowed in thought. "You didn't taste right. What bit your shoulder?"

Stiles made an aborted move to touch the old wound. "Don't you know?" he asked, swallowing hard. "Are your stalker skills really that rusty?"

"Your smell is also wrong," Peter said, ignoring the attempt at sarcasm.

"Changed deodorants. Girls actually don't like Axe. Who knew?"

Peter's cheek twitched with amusement. "Everyone," he replied. He raised a brow. "That's it then, what's changed since the last time I was near you...It doesn't explain the taste, but it does explain the rest. I don't smell _her_ on you. You and Malia aren't together."

"Uh, we _are,_ actually." Stiles swallowed, hesitating before he continued. He hadn't expected the conversation to go in this direction, his mind still circling around the bite Donovan had left him with. If Peter meant to throw him off, he was doing a great job. "I mean, we're not _together_ together recently, but we haven't...We're not actually broken...You know, this is actually none of your business, and it's kind of pervy that you'd notice that I haven't been sleeping with your _daughter_ lately."

"I, for one, am glad." Peter eased himself up, stepping closer to the bed. "Not that I had a problem with her choice in mates, but your dating did get in the way of some of my plans. You'll both be more useful apart."

"We're not!" Stiles snapped.

His cheeks felt hot with embarrassment. They weren't broken up. They were still a couple. They were just...They were on a break or something. Every relationship had highs and lows, right? Stiles wasn't really sure considering his lack of experience in that department, but surely if he and Malia were over, there would have been some blow-out, some understanding, some _something_ to let him know...Or maybe there was one. Maybe he'd missed it. Stiles didn't know why he was letting Peter piss him off so much, and he would lose his left leg before admitting that part of it had to do with suspecting Peter might be right.

_Fuck you, Peter Hale._

"What happened to you?"

Stiles blinked, taken off guard by the change in subject. "Nothing happened to me."

"You're lying." Peter eased down onto the edge of the bed and tilted his head back and to the side, watching Stiles. The expression was so patronizing that Stiles wanted to punch him before he could say whatever was on his mind. "Oh, I think something very interesting happened. And I've concluded that it's the reason you've drifted away from Malia, why Scott wasn't by your side while your father was hospitalized. Why one of those hybrids was watching you. So, what was it?"

Stiles scrambled away from him, off the opposite side of the bed, and nearly crashed into the other wall when a sharp pain lanced through his thigh. He regained his footing quickly, but almost lost it again when he felt a hand lay over his flank. Stiles froze, blinking furiously at the wall, eyes prickling at the pain when Peter's fingertips prodded the heavy hematoma through the leg of his jeans.

"Should have iced that too, I suppose," Peter mumbled, far too close.

Stiles already knew that. In fact, he was well schooled in icing busted blood vessels and lumps thanks to lacrosse and the supernatural going-ons of Beacon Hills, and he was fairly certain the huge, egg-shaped swelling was just that, nothing serious. Especially in comparison to being trapped in a cabin with Peter. Stiles could almost feel the heat of the body at his back, right out of touch, keeping him against the wall. And he couldn't help but remember those teeth, sharp and wanting to dig into him, and Peter's confession about his homicidal urges.

"No shit."

"Don't push me," Peter warned.

His hand slipped back up a few inches, grazing against the skin beneath the hem of Stiles' shirt, and Stiles sucked in a breath between his teeth. He was two seconds from slapping the werewolf's hand away, imminent death or not, when he closed his eyes in relief, the pain slowly ebbing from his hip.

Stiles' voice was quiet, shaky. "Stop it."

Peter pulled away, giving Stiles a chance to slide off the wall and hobble to a more open spot. He waited a moment, expecting Peter to say something, but the werewolf was still staring at the wall where Stiles had been, as if examining it for a flaw. He looked spaced out. Stiles left him there, retreating to the bathroom. A locked door wouldn't holding him out, but Stiles needed it, with or without Peter's permission.

* * *

With life-affirming clarity, Stiles realized that his friends and family were completely right about his lack of survival instinct. This realization took place about two seconds after the Coleman gas lamp that he'd thrown at Peter's head hit the wall and shattered. Stiles let out a shaky breath, some of the pent up rage inside him slipping alway, and thanked any god who was listening that it was currently daylight outside and the lantern wasn't actually lit, because that moment had come way too close to a Molotov cocktail incident that he was certain Peter would remember. So instead of the werewolf reacting by lunging forward to rip him apart, Peter only glared in Stiles' general direction.

"That was an antique," he noted. "If you're going to continue with this temper tantrum, I'm going to have to tie you up."

"Screw you," Stiles snapped.

He was still trembling, his face flushed, but the anger was turning to something more sullen. He stumbled back into his chair, crossing his arms over the table top and burying his head in them to block out even the sight of Peter before he pissed himself off again.

Two days. Two and almost-a-half days, he'd been trapped here, in this cabin with Peter Hale. The first day, he'd mostly slept. The second had been filled with Peter taking time to stare into space and engage him in strange conversations about his life and read _The Stand_ , which maybe wasn't the best choice for someone with his mental instabilities. Stiles knew Peter was being purposely boring; he was waiting for Stiles to actually answer his questions, and that wasn't happening. So Stiles had played Peter's game and picked up _The Hobbit,_ which he'd already read (Peter's small collection was limited) and tried to keep himself occupied. It didn't work.

The third day...By breakfast, Stiles had chewed the side of his fingers until one was bleeding, and he couldn't stop twitching. The anxiety was building with every second he spent tearing apart the pre-packaged blueberry muffin on his plate. He couldn't take it any more. He couldn't stop thinking about what was happening in Beacon Hills. About his dad. About Scott. He knew he needed to calm himself down or he'd work himself into a full blown panic attack, but the thoughts just kept circling in his head. And then, Peter, with perfect timing, had sighed in annoyance.

Sighed. In annoyance.

Stiles had lost it. If their dishes hadn't been plastic and paper, the mess would have been far worse. Stiles wasn't even sure if he knew what all the swear words he'd thrown at Peter actually meant.

It was, as Peter had correctly labeled it, a tantrum. But Stiles couldn't bring himself to care what he'd looked like. He'd needed to do _something_. And he didn't have the power to do anything but pitch a fit and scream. So. Yeah.

Stiles groaned against his arm, exhausted. "I hate you," he said.

"Good." He heard Peter take the other seat. "Well, now that you've gotten that out of your system..."

Stiles lifted his head up, refusing to be embarrassed. "Let me go, Peter. I _need to go_. My dad...I don't even know if my dad..." He trailed off, wanting to take back the request. "How is this even working into whatever evil plans you've made? This doesn't make any sense! You kidnap me and we sit around in a cabin all day?"

"Ah, so this is about your father. So predictable." Peter rolled his eyes. "I planned to tell you after you finished your breakfast...You'll be happy to know that Sheriff Stilinski is doing well and in recovery."

"What?" Stiles blinked at him, confused. "How do you know that?"

"Because I saw him the other night."

Stiles opened and closed his mouth. "What the Hell? You _left_ one night? When?"

"While you were sleeping." The tone of Peter's voice said he was deeply disappointed by the level of stupidity that question displayed. "I needed to see how things were moving along in Beacon Hills. He knows you're missing, obviously. And the fact that none of his officers seem to know, other than the one that acts like a puppy, seems to support my theory that the good sheriff knows I'm the one who took you."

"What?" Stiles waved his good hand to stop Peter from going on. "Okay, even if I believed you, which I don't necessarily, because this seems exactly like something you'd lie about to get me to shut up and calm down...How would my dad know that-?" Stiles cut the question off, now annoyed with himself. "You took me in front of the hospital. Where there are cameras. You wanted them to know."

Peter grinned charmingly, but the expression hardened into something colder. "That's beside the point. They would have found out soon enough anyway. I had a little run in with our dear True Alpha. He looked a bit worse for wear, probably a good thing since it made him easier to lose. He's quite upset with me, as you might imagine, but he's alive. The point is, the people you're concerned about are perfectly fine for the moment, so you can go back to worrying about yourself...What was that look on your face, right then?"

Stiles sat up straighter. "What look?"

"The one you were wearing when I mentioned Scott."

Stiles stared down at his fingers, fiddling with the wrap around his wrist. Scott was looking for him. That shouldn't have surprised him. He knew Scott, knew that if Scott was in one piece, he'd try and help, even if he still thought Stiles was a murderer. But there was a part of Stiles (that part without the survival instinct) that sincerely hoped Scott didn't find them. He'd rather stare down crazy-Peter, if he were perfectly honest. Not that he was being honest, so Stiles put on a mask of bravado.

"You know he's going to kick your ass, right?" Stiles asked. "You made a mistake showing your face. He's going to find you. And he's going to take whatever werewolf street-cred you have left and flush it. I mean, obviously you _like_ the sensation of having your ass kicked or you wouldn't have stuck around in Beacon Hills, but I thought I should remind you, in case your trip to Mexico slipped your mind."

Stiles didn't like the way that shit-eating smirk stayed on Peter's face. The older man leaned forward across the table. His voice was low, as if he were whispering. "Stiles. You just lied to me."

Then Peter stood, went back to his couch, and cracked open his book, as if nothing had happened.

Stiles felt like he'd been slapped. His eyes were hot, prickling. One knee bounced under the table, his anxiety creeping back. "What if I'd ran?" he asked. He sucked in his bottom lip, chewing at it. "When you left, what if I'd woken up and ran?"

Peter didn't look up from his book. "I would have chased you," he answered, as if that were obvious.

Stiles didn't know why that answer made his skin flush. He didn't know why he liked the idea of Peter coming after him, of Peter stopping him from going back to Beacon Hills. There was just too much happening there, too many people he didn't want to see. But Stiles knew himself, knew what decision he'd make, if given the chance.

"Peter?"

Stiles didn't like the way his voice hitched on the man's name, but it got the right reaction. Peter did look up this time, brow raised in question.

"I want..." Stiles started over. "Tie me up tonight."

He could hear a low screaming in the back of his mind, trying to make him take back the request. It sounded like Scott. Stiles tried to ignore it and stared back at Peter, expecting a question from the man. He had an answer on the tip of his tongue: _because I'll run if you don't._ He didn't need it, though. Peter's eyes trailed his form a moment, something hesitant in his expression, before he finally opened his mouth.

"Whatever you need, Stiles."

* * *

Peter's hands felt rough against the bruises at his wrist, blossoming out from under the fresh bandages, and the man kept running his hands over them, as if looking for something. The swelling had gone down, and Stiles took that as a good sign, even if the wound was still tender. He wasn't worried about the bite itself, since it was a few inches below the curve of his wrist, but the sprain was another matter. It would get in the way of the ropes.

"I know it's going to hurt," Stiles said, urging the man to get it done with.

Peter's cheek twitched, as if he were biting down a grin. "Yes. It is. Especially in the morning."

But Peter didn't try and talk him out of it. And Stiles didn't take back the...Request seemed like the wrong word. Permission seemed a better fit, even if it was probably an illusion.

Nightfall had brought fresh tension to the small cabin, since neither of its occupants had forgotten their morning conversation. Peter had ordered Stiles to get ready for bed and went outside; he'd returned with rope, presumably from the car. Stiles was too nervous to question it. He didn't know why, really, since it didn't really feel like fear building up in him. It _should_ have been fear, considering the company, considering the memories he had of being tied up in the past...Those weren't good times, and he didn't know what that said about him, that this was neither the first time he'd been abducted nor the first time he'd been tied up by a murderer.

"So screwed up," he commented, to himself.

Dressed for bed in track pants and a gray tee from his duffel bag, he'd sat down on the bed, shoulder blades pressed against the wall behind him in a slouch as he waited for Peter to begin.

But Peter had sat down on the bed beside him, facing him, and began patiently folding the rope. He looked like he knew what he was doing, which both sparked Stiles' curiosity and horrified him.

Tired of Peter toying with his wrist. Stiles pulled his hand away and then held both his arms out in front of him, close together. Peter huffed, eased them back apart, and began looping the rope around them, the tension between them holding them in straight, parallel lines. Then he pulled the rope around the center, crossing it before repeating the motion. It looked like they were going to play some sort of advanced game of Cat's Cradle. After a few minutes, though, the noose of rope formed a stiff bridge between one wrist and the other, the circles trapping his fists apart but leaving his shoulders relaxed.

Stiles twisted his wrists, testing them. He stopped when he felt a hand on his knee. Peter stared up at him, head cocked in interest.

"Time for the ankles," he said, his fingers running down Stiles' calve. He quickly let go and pushed himself up onto his knees so that he could tug loose his belt. Stiles' mouth felt dry; he quickly looked away, embarrassed when he realized Peter was only freeing the belt to use it on his legs. Peter made quick work of it, using the belt's own holes to hold it into place, and Stiles figured he might be able to get out of that, if it wasn't for the werewolf roommate.

Peter stared at Stiles' feet a moment, his eyes slowly trailing him until they reached the young man's face again. Stiles didn't remember Peter's human eyes looking so dark. It wasn't a familiar expression, want. Stiles wasn't often on the receiving end of that look, but he knew it, nevertheless.

"Well," Peter said, softly, "aren't you a sight."

Stiles felt the heat at his cheeks. He knew he was blushing and he freakin' hated it. There was absolutely nothing about this situation that should be making him react this way to the hungry look on Peter's face, and, yet, the traitor in his pants thought otherwise. Stiles squirmed slightly, feeling uncomfortable, but he already knew the damage was done. Peter would have been able to smell that Stiles was turned on, even without trying. And, with the way his nostrils had just flared, Peter _had_ noticed.

"You're different now that you know the others are safe."

That wasn't what he was expecting Peter to say. Stiles was expecting a tease, or sarcasm. The comment threw him off balance.

"I don't _know_ any such thing," Stiles replied. "You're a lying liar who lies. You probably never even saw Dad."

Peter shrugged. "It's the truth. And a part of you believes me, because you know it's in my best interest to keep you from doing something stupid to try and see him. It occurs to me that you're different because you no longer want to run..." Peter trailed off, his eyes narrowing. "Why do you care so little for yourself, Stiles? Don't deny it. You practically handed yourself to me on a silver platter." As if to illustrate his point, he curled his fingers around the rope and jerked, forcing Stiles to sit up straight. "And now _this_."

Stiles could feel the hiss of the word against his face. His arms felt tight, the muscles resisting the rigidness of his position. "The ropes are me protecting myself. Like you said. I might do something stupid again," he bit.

"Maybe," Peter admitted. He huffed out a laugh, leaning even closer, as if to study Stiles' eyes. "Or maybe you wanted this so that you can tell yourself you were at my mercy, when I made you spill all your secrets."

Stiles opened and closed his mouth, feeling breathless. "I killed someone."

The words slipped out so easily that he wasn't sure if he'd actually spoken them. Peter stilled entirely, his expression showing that he'd heard. That he'd understood.

Stiles was lightheaded. "You want to know what's different? That's it. I killed someone, a chimera who was trying to kill me. Or maybe not kill me. Just eat my legs off." Stiles tried to laugh, but it didn't come out right. "And I didn't tell anyone. So, of course, the second I decided that maybe it was okay, what I did, that maybe it didn't make me a monster, that maybe I could tell Scott...Everything blew up in my face." He blinked, a tear rolling down his cheek. "So, you were right, Peter. I didn't fight, not nearly hard enough, when you took me. Any other time I would have had a plan, an escape in the works, but you caught me on an off day."

Stiles shook his head. "And you want to know why I ran? Well, you were right about that too. I knew I couldn't get away, but what I _could_ do was figure out if you were actually insane or if it was an act to fit whatever manipulative scheme you had in the works."

Peter raised a brow. "Well?"

"You didn't kill me."

Peter huffed, amused, and reached up, one claw gently scratching a welt into Stiles' cheek as he wiped a tear away. His fingers wrapped around the young man's chin, holding his head up. "Stiles, I assure you, the part of myself that's more wolf than man, more rage than logic, doesn't want you dead. It never has."

Stiles didn't know why that made his chest hurt. He bit down on his bottom lip, but it didn't stop him from saying what was on his mind. "Maybe...maybe you should let that part win."

"Oh, you really shouldn't say things like that," Peter whispered.

Stiles wasn't expecting lips on his, but the feel of Peter's tongue licking his mouth open, the scrape of the older man's scruffy chin against his cheek, it pulled him away from the conversation. He could feel a low hum in head, another muffled scream of warning that everything about this was wrong, but he ignored it, submitting to the temporary amnesia the man holding him upright brought on when his hand slid off Stiles' face to cradle the back of his neck. He let out a moan, unsure if it was in protest, but Peter pulled back at the sound. Stiles opened his mouth to speak, but Peter reached for his knees, yanking Stiles further down the bed.

Stiles fell back, head hitting the pillow, and Peter took advantage of his barren neck, licking a line up the pale flesh.

"You've done entirely too much of the talking tonight," Peter said, into his ear. "It's my turn."

Stiles grunted when he felt Peter slip a hand into his track pants. "Jesus," he wheezed out, "you love the sound of your own... _Fuck_."

Peter wrapped his fingers around Stiles' cock, thumbing at the head. "I know what you value, what you crave. I could see it in you, what you grasped on to so desperately. Control."

Peter's palm was rough, dry, but Stiles whimpered when he felt it slide along his length, pumping him in slow drags. He felt cool air as his loose pants were pushed further down and lifted his ass so they could slide down more easily.

"It's not a bad thing," Peter continued. "Control means stability. It's what you brought to Scott's pack before he even had one. If you have control, then the world won't tilt off its axis. The people you love can't get themselves hurt if you're their puppeteer. This is where we're the same, Stiles...You're so hard, sweetheart, so needy..."

Peter's hand pulled away, and Stiles swore under his breath. He heard the sound of a zipper, and arched his neck to look down. He stared, transfixed as Peter pushed his jeans down his hips, his heavy cock bobbing as soon as the denim was out of its way. Stiles could barely swallow at the sight of its wet, purple head. He hadn't expected the man to be hard. He wasn't sure why, but he thought this was somehow his own weakness, that Peter was too unmovable to be turned on by what was happening.

Stiles was glad he was wrong, that this wasn't just one game piece being slid across the board.

Peter rolled over on top of him, straddling his hips and holding himself up on his arms. Stiles couldn't see what was happening. He pulled his bound arms up over his head so he could watch. His shirt had ridden up high, and Peter's stomach bounced against his as the man pressed down. Stiles caught a glimpse of their leaking cocks lined up. The heat between them was overwhelming. He closed his eyes, listening to the slap of their bodies, the throaty grunts from Peter as he curved his back, grinding their bodies together. Peter slowed as he shifted his weight to one hand and reached beneath them with the other, catching their cocks. His pace was agonizing for a few short minutes, long steady strokes against the side of Stiles' dick.

Stiles tried and failed to lift himself up into the movement, swearing under his breath, but Peter only laughed before increasing his pace. The friction was too much. Stiles couldn't manage more than a cry as he came across his own stomach. Blinking, dazed at the mess, he watched Peter release his hold on him and sit upright, pumping his own cock even faster. A moment later, Peter came in long spurts, streaking Stiles chest and the top of his shirt with cum.

Stiles felt a line of it hit him across the chin.

The room was quiet a moment, but for the sound of their labored breathing and the whine of the mattress as Peter collapsed beside Stiles.

"There's another word for control..." Peter's voice sounded raw, like he'd been chewing gravel. "Power. You seek out power. So do I."

Stiles felt Peter move and turned his head, watching him. Peter reached up, swiping away the mess on his chin with one finger.

"I'm not like you," Stiles said.

"No. Of course not," Peter said. His smile was slow, devilish. "But that doesn't mean we can't use one another."

"What could _I_ possibly have to do with you having power? I'm just a human."

Peter didn't answer.

* * *

Stiles ran his fingers through his damp hair, slicking it back to dry, and tried not to stare at himself in the bathroom's fogged mirror. He knew his side was still a bruised mess, and the rest of him as pale as usual, but what he was currently attempting to avoid seeing were the red scrapes over his face from Peter's short beard, the barely-there scratches on his jaw from Peter's claws...They'd made shaving a pain in the ass, and they made the idea of "rescue" something Stiles wanted to push to the back of his mind. What if they found him right now? What if they found him and knew just from one look what he'd done last night? They'd probably get the wrong idea, when they saw the light purple lines around his wrists and ankles. Or maybe they wouldn't really be wrong. Stiles had given in to it, but Peter was still his kidnapper, wasn't he? The law would labeled it as something aside from consensual sex between two adults. Hell, he wasn't even sure Peter knew he was eighteen, or if it would have mattered if he wasn't.

But Stiles didn't feel used. He didn't feel manipulated. He felt...light. Like a burden had been lifted off his shoulders. He wasn't sure if that was because of the confession he'd made or the things that came after the confession. Or if it was just because he knew that when he walked into the other room, the man sitting at the table wouldn't so much as blink at either of those things.

Stiles pulled a reasonably fresh t-shirt Peter had loaned him over his head, mentally making a note to wash his other change of clothes and his filthy pajamas in the sink later today. A burst of laughter slipped out from between his lips at the thought of the absurdly normal chore, and he pushed down the slight hysteria, stepping back out into the chilly main room of the cabin.

"You look like you enjoyed your shower," Peter noted, sipping at a mug of coffee.

Stiles saw that he had a cup of his own and sat down across from Peter to enjoy it. The coffee was camper quality and barely up to the Sheriff's Department brew's standard; that was saying something, but Stiles savored the idea of the caffeine hitting his system and calming him down. The bitter, grainy taste left him grimacing, and he was two seconds away from launching into yet another request for Peter to hook the generator up to the main power instead of just the tiny hot water heater so that they could cook some real breakfast, when Peter rolled his eyes.

 _Peter Hale is an actual mind reader,_ Stiles mentally admitted.

"We'll go get a bite to eat from the diner down the road," Peter said.

Stiles nearly spit out his coffee. "For real?"

"Did you honestly think we were in the middle of no where? As much as I've allowed you to ramble on about those horrible 'off the grid' reality shows, I assure you, these cabins don't qualify."

Stiles shook his head. "You're taking me out into public?"

Peter sighed, as if already bored with this conversation. "Unless you're planning to make a spectacle of yourself? I thought not. I told you, your father hasn't officially reported you as missing. Which means he doesn't have his full resources at his disposal, so unless we're simply unfortunate enough to bump into a familiar face, I doubt anyone will find out where we are. And, honestly, it wouldn't matter if they did."

"What do you mean by that?" Stiles sat up a bit straighter. "Why wouldn't it matter?"

Peter took a long drink of coffee, grimacing slightly at the taste. And he ignored both questions, which left Stiles' nerves frayed. "We need to have a conversation before we venture out into civilization. A proper one."

"About what happened last night?"

"I would have thought last night was fairly self explanatory," Peter noted. The corner of his mouth curved in a smile. "I want to answer the question you asked me. You wanted to know how I planned to use you to regain my former power."

Stiles frowned. "Go on then."

"Well, to be perfectly honest, I didn't have an answer to that question when I took you. I simply knew I required you... You're familiar with Dr. Valack? He has a particular talent for turning people into vegetables." Peter's expression darkened. "When I was put into Eichen House, he was my cell mate for a short term."

Stiles blanched, remembering what Peter had told him, after he'd attacked: _"He locked me back inside. Back inside me."_ Those words made more sense now. Peter had been locked back inside his own head, just like he'd been during those years he'd spent in a coma. Stiles wasn't sure why he had the sudden urge to vomit.

"But there's more to Dr. Valack's talent, of course...The madness is simply a side-effect, really. For those compelled to look into it, what his third eye allows you to see is, well, answers. Pulling yourself out of the catatonic state those answers put you in, that's the tricky part."

"But you have some experience with that," Stiles said.

Peter's grin returned, even if his eyes remained just as cold. "I do."

"So, what did you see?"

"I haven't told you what my question was."

"I think I already know," Stiles said, huffing. "Peter Hale wants to rule the world."

"Everybody wants to rule the world," Peter replied, amused. "But that's beside the point...I saw _you_ , Stiles. Imagine my surprise. You're the answer to my question, and you've been here all along. Right in my grasp. My instincts already knew, I think, how useful you could be, but I had no clue how to work with your potential. Until now."

Stiles wiped his damp palms off on the knees of his pants. "What do you want?"

"An exchange," Peter said, tapping a finger on the table top. "I won't ask for a favor, just a simple exchange. I'll offer my services to you, and you'll do what it is I require. Now, before you say something tacky about my servicing you, I want you to keep in mind that your pack is scattered and weak, your Alpha barely holding himself together, and you have an army of enemies hell-bent on destroying everything you care about."

"Wow, thanks. Might have forgotten without that handy reminder," Stiles snapped.

"What I'm offering is simple," Peter went on. "I'll do what Scott refuses to do. What's necessary. I don't have to spell it out to you, do I?"

Stiles couldn't help it. A part of him literally trembled with anticipation. Theo. Gone. Poof. Yeah, he was certain that, even if he was weaker than the chimeras, Peter could find a way to make that happen. "And what do you get in return?"

"What I've always wanted."

Stiles glared up at him. "You're not hurting Scott."

Peter rolled his eyes again. "Your loyalty is disgusting, but I have no intention of hurting Scott. I've learned my lesson, thank you. Besides, there's easier prey to be found. One is even on his way back into Beacon Hills, if rumors are to be trusted. I believe you remember Deucalion?"

" _What?_ Where is this supernatural water cooler you've been standing around? How could you possibly know that?" Stiles stood up, walking a circle around the room and accutely aware of Peter's eyes following him. He pinched the bridge of his nose. "And why? Why would he be back?"

"Who cares?" Peter shrugged. "And before you ask, does it really matter if he intends to help or hurt? He murdered how many packs now? Even I was a bit a disturbed when Scott let him get away with a mere warning. Your friend's mercy is the reason you and your pack is even in this situation. You know that, Stiles. Don't lie and say you'd have let Deucalion walk free."

"I wouldn't have let you go either," Stiles said. He didn't mean for the words to slip out, but he refused to take them back. It was the truth. If he'd been in Scott's shoes, he and Peter wouldn't be having this conversation. The realization sent a chill down his back.

Peter stood up, walking out to meet him, a disturbingly sincere smile on his face. "Which is why I know you have what it takes to do your part."

"You want..." Stiles closed his eyes, breathed slowly to calm himself down. "You want to kill Deucalion and take his power. I get that. But what the hell can I do to help you? I'm just a human."

" _Just_." Peter spat the word out. He reached up, grabbing hold of Stiles shoulders, stilling him. "You're unexpected, Stiles. He'll look at you and see a rabbit. You're exactly what I need to get him where I want him. Then I'll be the Alpha again, and I'll even leave Scott and his pack alone. Betas won't be hard to come by. We both win, Stiles."

"I'm not going to-"

"Be mine?" Peter raised a brow. "We'll see. But I won't force the bite on you, if that's what you're asking."

"This won't work. We can't just play a game of _Strangers on a Train_ and expect no one to get hurt! My friends will know what I've done, do you get that? How am I supposed to look them in the eye if they think..." His voice trailed off, something breaking inside of him. They already knew. All of them would know by now. "If they think I'm a killer," he said, more quietly.

Peter led him back toward the table. When the man sat back down in his chair, Stiles didn't expect to be pulled with him. He spread his legs on instinct, letting Peter settle him against his body, chest to chest, his inner thighs pressed hard against Peter's flank, his ass balanced atop the man's thick legs.

Stiles didn't fight him. Didn't try to pull away. Instead he leaned against him, letting his forehead drop to Peter's neck. He felt drained, weak. He didn't want to think anymore.

Peter ran a hand up his back, soothing him. Sitting here, being cradled, should have been either erotic or humiliating, but Stiles felt oddly comforted, letting Peter support his weight.

"You probably won't believe me when I tell you I understand shame, but I do, Stiles." Peter's breath was hot against Stiles' ear. "But you won't have to deal with that this time. I've taken care of you. I didn't go to Beacon Hills while you were sleeping just to check on your father. I went to leave a message behind. I sent Scott on a little errand to find the rest of my money, what I hadn't already recovered from our dead pool situation. I gave him a few days, enough time to get in contact with my nephew and formulate a plan. I promised to return you tonight. In one piece if he has my money; in two pieces if he doesn't."

Stiles lifted his head up. "You...you made a ransom demand?" His eyes widened. "Oh, my god. None of them will even know what this has really been about."

"They won't suspect a thing," Peter agreed. "Masterful, isn't it?"

"Shit. It actually is," Stiles muttered. "And it sounds like something you'd do to get your money back."

"I'd say I resent that, but I don't." Peter's fingers cupped Stiles cheek, forcing him to stare down into his eyes. There was hunger in the werewolf's eyes as he thumbed the young man's bottom lip. "Now, do we have a deal?"

"I still don't think this is going to work," Stiles admitted. "I can't...I don't know if I can do what you want me to do."

"You're the answer to my question," Peter replied, as if that settled it. He tilted his head up, closer to Stiles. "Now, let's seal this properly, while I still have the opportunity to thoroughly corrupt you."

Stiles closed his eyes as he bent into the kiss. It was more chaste than their last, softer, but it set his body on fire. This thing with Peter, it was wrong, every sort of wrong, but Stiles didn't want to pull away. Peter was right; Stiles was different now. But maybe it wasn't a bad thing. Maybe it could even be useful. Maybe the world would stay on its axis, after all, with two puppeteers holding its strings.


End file.
